


you got blood on your hands (and i know it's mine)

by kirargent



Category: Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types, Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood Drinking, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt, M/M, POV Simon, Positive ending, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 00:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6172357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirargent/pseuds/kirargent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon's a monster, a monster, a monster. Clary and Jace did this to him, but somehow the blood isn't on their hands like it should be—it's on Simon's, on his hands, slippery between his fingers, in his mouth, down his throat, on his clothes his chin his skin his face—</p>
            </blockquote>





	you got blood on your hands (and i know it's mine)

**Author's Note:**

> For the [shadowhunters fic-a-thon](http://ladygawain.livejournal.com/83265.html)!
> 
> [freckles929](http://freckles929.livejournal.com/) requested: Jace/Simon/Clary (or any combination therein) - you got blood on your hands/and i know it's mine.
> 
> preslash or romantic jace/simon; platonic simon & clary.
> 
> this is rushed and basically just an excuse to be emo about my sad vampire son i'm sorry?

 

Simon's thoughts were initially along the lines of: _I'm a monster_ , but that does fuck-all to help him cope, so then he switches his thinking to: _Clary's a monster, she made me this_ , and that helps a little more.

And then Clary shows up, all bright hair and fire-eyes, and Simon loves her, he loves her, he doesn't hate her, he can't, never could.

Clary hugs him, small body but tight grip, and Simon's spine tenses as he tells himself not to look at the smooth cream of her neck, the soft, easily breakable skin, so fragile, right there. He averts his eyes—and there's Jace, watching him, his expression the same as always.

He thinks Simon pathetic. He considers his feelings for Clary stupid, doomed—poor pathetic Simon.

Simon thinks that he won't do it in front of Clary, but if that asshole looks at him wrong and there isn't a slip of a girl around who makes up for her size with determination to hold Simon back, he'll sink his mint condition fangs right into Jace Wayland's neck and he'll drink until he's fucking satisfied.

There comes a sharp, bright pain in his mouth. The very fangs he's been thinking about have pierced his own lip.

Simon makes a noise like a dog kicked in the stomach and he shoves Clary away, away, because she's made of skin and bone and flesh and blood, lots of blood, there's, like, liters of it in the human body, Isabelle probably knows the exact amount—

The point is, he wants to close his jaw around her throat and drink, and he has to double over himself and breathe through his nose—even though breathing isn't a requirement anymore (perks of death)—to stop himself from being sick.

“Simon,” says Clary, her voice a sob. There are tears on her white cheeks, sliding down fast and silent. She's crying and all Simon can think of is a different one of her bodily fluids, the red one, the thick, coppery-scented blood that runs right through that thick vein in the side of her throat—

Simon rips his eyes from Clary, staring unseeingly at the green wall of the room in the Hotel Dumort. He's impressed the other vampires allowed Jace and Clary up here; he guesses they have a bit more control than he does.

Clary takes a step closer, her hands up like she thinks she can fix this whole thing with the healing power of touch and love.

Jace grips her by the shoulder, stops her in her tracks, and Simon thinks just maybe he won't bite the bastard next time they're alone.

“You should go,” Simon says, his voice tight.

 _I'm a monster,_ he thinks again, because Clary made him into this but he can't find it in himself to hate her, so he just hates himself instead.

“ _Simon_ ,” Clary begs.

“Jace,” says Simon, meeting brown-blue eyes over Clary's head. “Go, would you?”

And Jace gives him a curt nod, tight-lipped, and he takes a violently protesting Clary by the arm and leads her from the room.

He doesn't _like_ the guy, but Simon resolves not to drain Jace Wayland's body empty of blood.

 

 

When Simon masters more control over himself and his new needs and urges, it becomes easier for Clary to play what has become her favorite game: pretending like nothing has changed.

It _has_ , of course. Simon can't touch sunlight or his skin will sear, and he'll die if exposed for long. His dead body can't digest human food, so there's that, which makes family dinner nights pretty uncomfortable. His mom doesn't know, because—well, Simon's a literal horror-movie monster, so. He wasn't exactly keen to tell her about it.

But—other than that.

And the fact that he physically can't step on hallowed ground.

And the fact that he now has to drink blood to survive.

And the fact that the word “God” refuses to exit his throat; and touching a Star of David burns his fingertips.

And the fact that he's super strong and supernaturally fast.

And the fact that he doesn't need glasses anymore.

But really, aside from all of those things, Clary can lace her fingers through Simon's and kiss him on the cheek and pretty much get away with acting like everything's normal.

It's not. It's not the same. Everything is different, _Simon_ is different, and she and Jace and Raphael made him this way, and he wishes he could hate them but he can't.

That's no different than before, he supposes. He never could hate Clary.

Another thing that _is_ different: Jace. Stocky, runed Jace with a flop of gold hair and arms that bulge when he crosses them and a serious, hard-mouthed expression that he fixes on Simon more and more frequently.

Simon doesn't know what happened to dismissive, sarcastic Jace.

Fears, a little, that that Jace is gone because the new one is _scared_ of Simon. (Which is fair. He should be. Everyone should be. Simon's a monster, a monster, a monster. Clary and Jace did this to him, but somehow the blood isn't on their hands like it should be—it's on Simon's, on his hands, slippery between his fingers, in his mouth, down his throat, on his clothes his chin his skin his face—)

Jace leans against a wall like a model for a leather company and stares at Simon with that brooding expression, and Simon licks his dry lips and says, “It's been... a while since I fed, you know.”

They're in a dingy, empty cellar—the demons they were waiting out have gone, but now it's daylight, so, uh, _problem_.

Jace wanted to drape Simon in his jacket and lead him blindly outside. Simon told him that clothing wasn't enough to stave off the sun—walls would do, and nothing else.

Jace smirked. Said he knew that.

Simon's stomach twisted uncomfortably, and he wasn't sure if he liked the glimpse of old, cruel Jace, or not.

“I'm guessing you didn't bring a snack bag,” says Jace, lazily crossing one leg over the other.

“Ha, ha,” says Simon, twisting his hands together. “No.” He treats Jace with a sarcastic smile. “That would've been a great idea, had I known we were going to be trapped in here.” He kicks at the dust-cluttered cement floor. “Uh—Really, Jace. I mean it. It's been a while.”

“So you said.” Jace sounds uninterested.

Simon rolls his eyes. “Dude, I'm serious. If you don't want to be used as my personal sippy cup of blood, you'd better get out of here.”

Jace pushes off from the wall, motions slow and careless. Simon's eyes find the thick vein of his throat; catch there, get stuck, staring.

“Jace,” says Simon. He's grown far better regarding his control, but he's _hungry_ , and Jace is alive, so alive, life, life, life, warm and thick and liquid.

Jace rolls his eyes. “I'm not leaving, man. If I leave, what's to stop you from jumping the nearest mundane as soon as the sun goes down?”

Simon grits his back teeth. “Then you'd better go find me some animal blood,” he says tightly. “Jace, I'm serious. I'm—You're—”

Looking supremely bored, Jace comes toward Simon, his steps measured.

Simon swallows down a pained moan. “ _Jace_ —”

Jace's eyes are level with Simon's when he says, “Drink from me.”

Simon thought that vampirism had enhanced all of his senses, but now he wonders if maybe his hearing has gone to hell.

“Uh—sorry, what?”

“Drink my blood,” Jace says, his voice even. He extends an arm, inner-wrist up, and pulls a knife from at his waist.

Simon scrambles backward. “Whoa. Whoa—stop, no way, man. What are you doing?”

Jace follows him, step for step, until Simon's back hits the hard concrete wall, the back of the cage. Funny that Simon is of a predatory species, but Jace is always the more panther-like.

“Do it.”

Simon turns his head aside, cheek to cold concrete. “No,” he says. His voice is weak.

He doesn't watch Jace slice a line into the skin of his arm, but he smells it immediately, sharp blood in the air. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Jace. _No_.”

“God damn it, Simon,” says Jace.

Simon blinks his eyes open. He glances to Jace, not looking down, don't look down, don't let yourself see the blood, stop wanting it, no, not a monster.

“I don't care, okay? Drink from me. You're not—you're not a monster, all right? I was wrong. We all are. You're not undead demon scum, you're Simon Lewis, Clary's best friend, and this is what you need to survive.” Jace's mouth is hard. “Just do it, already.”

Simon stares at him. Jace rolls his eyes.

Then, moving quickly, Jace steps in closer and raises his scarlet-wet wrist to Simon's mouth.

Simon's eyes widen. His hands rise, gripping Jace's arm—but he can't bring himself to push Jace away. He keeps his mouth closed, eyelids falling shut, feeling a sob rise in his chest.

Jace presses his wrist harder to Simon's lips. Simon feels the sharp burn of his fangs sinking into his own lip.

“Do it, Simon,” says Jace, and his voice is soft this time, unfiltered, and Simon opens his mouth and lets his fangs sink into Jace's skin and Jace tenses for just a split second before he relaxes in Simon's grip and Simon's mouth fills with warm liquid.

He doesn't open his eyes until he's freed his teeth from Jace's skin several long minutes later, feeling blood on his lips.

Jace is dark-eyed, watching Simon. Simon's insides twist.

“Why?” he manages to ask. “Because of Clary?”

Jace looks at him, face flatly unreadable. He says, finally, “No.”

He reaches up a strong, black-runed hand, his fingers catching Simon's jaw and his thumb swiping away some of the blood at Simon's mouth, and Simon thinks: _Oh_.

 

 

Clary can still pretend things are normal if she wants to, Simon supposes. Although her life has changed radically, as well—she's a Shadowhunter; Valentine's daughter; the one who found the Cup; a warrior for her comatose mother. She's many things that she always has been but never knew she was.

Brave.

Determined.

The kind of friend who grips you tight and doesn't let go for anything.

Things are different, and Simon won't pretend they aren't—he's violently allergic to sunlight; he's probably gonna live for centuries; he's in the habit of drinking the blood of his maybe-boyfriend on the regular—but maybe it makes sense for Clary to treat him the same as she always did.

Because he _is_ still Simon. That's true.

And she's still Clary. And they're still Clary-and-Simon.

And their hands are all painted in blood, Simon thinks, his own blood as well as others'—but at least their bloody fingers still fit together just as they always did.

 


End file.
